


something i'd never lose; something somebody stole

by andsoitgoes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:13:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsoitgoes/pseuds/andsoitgoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras <i>wants</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off a tumblr prompt here ( **spoilers for the rest of the fic!** ) : http://barricadeur.tumblr.com/post/52584263194/okay-but-where-is-the-fic-where-grantaire-gets-a
> 
>    
>  _okay but where is the fic where grantaire gets a boyfriend and enjolras is colossally unable to deal with it? like, they’re not exes or anything — they’ve never been anything more than friends, and enjolras has rejected any suggestion of that kind for years._  
>  but then as soon as grantaire is dating someone — a nice, caring, interesting someone, to wit — enjolras is hit with a cavalcade of regret and jealousy and anger that surprises everyone, not least of all him.  
> and i don’t even think he acts particularly badly. he’s not a mean person, and he’s self-aware enough to know how shitty it would be to hurt grantaire and his boyfriend (he forces himself to think the word, even as it makes his gut twist) to match the way he’s feeling inside. he’s cognizant of the massive cliché that his life has become, and he tries his best not to be an asshole.  
> but he can’t help it. he just, looks at grantaire, and it’s not significantly different from how he’s always looked at him. but before, grantaire was always looking back, and talking back, needling him or challenging him, and enjolras focused on that instead of what he felt.  
> but now, grantaire doesn’t look at him anymore. and enjolras — wants.
> 
>  
> 
> I own nothing!

**September**

 

“Hey,” Enjolras says, sliding into the chair next to Grantaire. The other man looks up from his phone and offers Enjolras a friendly smile. “Would you be able to go and pick up the art supplies for the club fair next week? If you need money, I’ll spot you- otherwise, just give ‘Ferre the itemized receipt and the club will reimburse you.”

 

Grantaire nods, putting his phone into standby mode and resting it on the bar table in front of them. “Sure. What were you thinking of?”

 

Enjolras feels a slight twinge of irritation- _well, Grantaire, if you’d bothered to be on time to the meeting tonight, you would have heard all about the fair plans_ – but he lets it slide, feeling generous tonight after a couple of comped beers. The beginning of fall semester is always Enjolras’ favorite time of the year- new classes, new faces at the ABC meetings, newly found energy from his friends as they work towards this year’s goals. It’s their junior year, and if there’s anything Enjolras has learned from the previous two years, it’s that kickstarting the movement as soon as possible has the longest lasting effects.

 

“Posters, maybe something for a flyer that we can distribute. You and Feuilly can figure it out, right?” Enjolras hears Courfeyrac yell his name from the other end of the bar. He twists in his seat, sees his friend frantically waving and pointing at a duo of terrified-looking freshmen, and sighs. “I have to go deal with-”

 

When he turns back, he cuts himself off. Grantaire is bent over his phone, now in his lap, smiling at something on the screen. Enjolras frowns- they were in the middle of an important _conversation_ , Christ- but Courfeyrac is chanting his name now so he stands up instead. “Grantaire,” he says once, and then again before the other man glances up from his phone after a second’s pause, still smiling.

 

“Yeah? Shit, sorry Apollo, I got distracted.”

 

Enjolras narrows his eyes.

 

“Are you feeling okay? You’re acting weird.”

 

“Hm? No, no, I’m fine. Hey, listen, I think I’ve got some new recruits for the club! Well, one so far, but he said he’ll try to bring some friends along.”

 

“Excellent,” Enjolras says, pleased that Grantaire is finally showing some initiative with Les Amis. It took him long enough, after all. “Tell them to come to the first meeting,” he calls over his shoulder as he starts down the bar to Courfeyrac.

 

Enjolras really, _really_ should have known better. 

 

 

* * *

 

Courfeyrac accosts him outside the Musain two weeks later. Enjolras opens his mouth to rip him a new asshole for nearly destroying the handouts for the meeting, but Courfeyrac’s eyes are _huge_ and his cheeks are flushed.

 

“Why didn’t you tell me you recruited the _most eligible bachelor_ on campus?”

 

“Jesus _Christ_ , Courf, what are you talking about? And was it really necessary to jump on me, you ass?”

 

Courfeyrac moves behind Enjolras and grabs his head between his hands. Enjolras doesn’t have time to protest before his nose is shoved against the window, face angled so that he’s looking at a blurry outline of a man.

 

“Trevor James,” Courfeyrac hisses into his ear. “ _Why. Didn’t. You. Tell. Me._ ”

 

Annoyed, Enjolras knocks the hands off his head. “Courfeyrac, I speak to dozens of people _each day_ about Les Amis. Do you require updates about every single one of them? Should I just keep a Bluetooth in my ear all day so that you can be privy to all of my conversations, and then I can describe what they look like so you can rate them on a scale of _most eligible_ to _cat-lady forever_?” He squints through the window again at the blurry outline. “Besides, I don’t know who Trevor James is, so even if I could see the guy, I wouldn’t be able to help you.”

 

Courfeyrac moans desperately and drops his forehead against the back of Enjolras’ neck.

 

“What’s the issue?” Enjolras asks. His patience is running into the negatives, now, and he hasn’t even _started_ the meeting. “Do not tell me that you already did something to him. You managed to scare away _seven_ new recruits last year, and you promised you’d be more careful.” _With your dick_ , Enjolras wants to add, but with Courfeyrac there is a fine line between reprimanding and opening up Pandora’s Box.

 

“I _need_ to get with him, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac mumbles into his shoulder. “He is number one on my list. He is far and away one of the most attractive guys on campus, he’s actually gay, and he’s a _musician_. A musician. He could write a song about our night spent together, Enjolras. I could be famous. He has a voice made of sex and chocolate and whiskey. _I need him_.”

 

“As disappointed as I am that your only goal in life is to be the subject of a raunchy one-hit wonder’s ballad,” Enjolras says, elbowing Courfeyrac until the other man steps back. “It is nowhere near as disappointing as the fact that you plan on using the introductory meeting for a club dedicated to making a difference in the world as the backdrop for this fantasy.”

 

“Hey,” says Courfeyrac, wounded. “You’re a cruel, cruel man, Enjolras. Just because you have managed to thwart hundreds of thousands of years of evolution by ignoring your sex drive doesn’t mean that we all need to be celibate.”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and grabs a grinning Courfeyrac by the ear to drag him through the door of the Musain. Warmth and the chatter of students greet them as they walk in. He marches them both over to the table reserved for the ABC meeting, dropping Courfeyrac into his usual seat next to Combeferre.

 

“Special delivery,” he says, dryly.

 

“Excellent, just what I’ve always wanted.” Combeferre doesn’t even look up from his laptop, scrolling through an Excel sheet filled with numbers- too complicated for Enjolras to even think about right now. “A mediocre pool player who spends his time losing his friends’ money in games that he knows he cannot possibly win.”

 

Bahorel roars in laughter, reaching across Eponine to clap a hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “You should try and find more of them; the boys and I had an awesome night drinking on your tab.”

 

Courfeyrac starts to defend his performance in last week’s pool game, but Enjolras has heard this conversation on four separate occasions by now. He shrugs off his backpack and coat, leaving them on the chair at the head of the table. The meeting is set to start in fifteen minutes, which gives him just enough time to introduce himself to the new faces in the bar.

 

He saves Courfeyrac’s newest crush for last. By the time Enjolras makes it around to _the_ Trevor James, he only has a minute to spare before the meeting is due to begin.

 

“Hey,” Enjolras says, sliding into an empty seat and holding his hand out to Trevor. “My name is Enjolras. Thank you for coming tonight.”

 

“Trevor,” the other man replies with a smile. “Nice to meet you.”

 

“Likewise.”

 

Enjolras supposes that he can see where Courfeyrac’s coming from. Trevor looks like he stepped off the cover of a surf magazine; light brown hair bleached blond and red by the sun, tan skin, blinding white smile and the greenest eyes Enjolras has ever seen. In theory, Trevor is a great addition to Les Amis; the man is model-handsome, and based on the nine different students blatantly staring at him, he has no trouble getting attention. Enjolras has no qualms using superficial means to attract the general public. Trevor’s usefulness to the club depends on his ability to memorize a script that’s long enough to get credit card numbers during fundraising stints, so Enjolras really could not give two shits as to the man’s intelligence or ideas. Still, Enjolras is polite (and also could _really_ use Trevor during Greek Week, when sorority girls pretend they care about the injustices of the world and throw their parents’ money at cute boys), so he smiles back at Trevor.

 

“Is this your first social activism meeting?” he asks. Best to get a baseline on this guy, and see what he has to work with.

 

“Is it that easy to tell?” Trevor winces and then laughs, exposing 32 impeccable teeth and _what the fuck_ it’s like he has veneers, they’re so perfect. “It’s my first meeting for a student organization, but I actually spent the last year interning at Amnesty International.”

 

“You had an internship at Amnesty?” Enjolras asks, incredulous. He’s been trying to get a decent internship with Amnesty since freshman year of high school, and has been routinely and systematically shot down at every opportunity. He can’t even begin to imagine what Trevor’s credentials must be to get him an entire year with Amnesty International. “How the hell did you get that?”

 

“Oh,” Trevor says with a sheepish smile. “My grandfather had a lot to do with the creation of the organization, so they let me intern there for a year.”

 

Enjolras reads between the lines and comes up with the fact that _Trevor James’ grandfather is a founding member of Amnesty International_. For a second, he thinks about passing out, and the only thing that stops him from doing so is the fact that Trevor James, grandson of a founding father of Amnesty International, is sitting in front of him and he refuses to embarrass himself like that. He is belatedly aware that he is staring, open-jawed, at Trevor, and flounders to continue the conversation.

 

“What are you doing here, then?”

 

“In New York? I came back here for school. I met a current member of this group at Thompson Square a couple of weeks ago, and he told me about your meetings,” Trevor explains. “So I said I’d come check it out. Can’t wait to hear what you’ve got planned for this year.”

 

Enjolras opens to his mouth to ask just _who_ was brilliant enough to bring this godsend to his club, this marketing machine with bronzed skin and perfect teeth and _charisma_ , not to mention real-world experience and an actual brain, but Courfeyrac’s voice cuts across their conversation.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen! Allow me the honor of welcoming you to this semester’s first meeting of Les Amis; collectively known around town as the ABC.  My name is Courfeyrac, and _believe me_ , the pleasure is all mine.” Eponine’s wolf whistle echoes throughout the bar, meeting several gentle laughs from the audience. “Now, if you would all please grab your drinks and get back to your seats, our illustrious and handsome leader will begin his speech shortly.”

 

Courfeyrac hops off the chair he’d been standing on as the quiet chatter throughout the Musain starts up again, students taking their coffees and beers to their seats. Combeferre catches Enjolras’ eye and looks pointedly at his watch.

 

“That’s my cue,” Enjolras sighs, pushing himself out of the chair. “Listen, I’d really like to hear more about your internship. If you have any ideas or tips or strategies that you’ve learned through Amnesty, I’d love to integrate them into our work here.”

 

“Of course,” Trevor replies with an easy smile. “I’d be happy to help. I can hang around for a bit after the meeting, if you’d like.”

 

“That would be perfect, actually. We have all the board members here, and I know that they’ll want to be involved as well.” Enjolras feels almost manic with how well this could go. Now, all he needs to do is keep Courfeyrac far, _far_ away from Trevor James (how could Trevor possibly focus on the _causes_ if Courfeyrac is drooling all over him), and everything will be totally fucking perfect.

 

He makes his way to the front of the bar, accepting the espresso that Jehan hands him with a smile. Nearly every seat in the bar is filled now, and Enjolras is pleased that even Musichetta’s managed to get off work for the first meeting of the semester. There’s only one empty chair at the regulars’ table- the one in the far corner, which is normally occupied by Grantaire, along with his sketchbook and a beer. Enjolras frowns and looks questioningly at Eponine, who just shrugs.

 

 

 

It’s strange for Grantaire to miss a meeting, but as Enjolras clears his throat and begins to speak, he catches movement out of the corner of his eye. He continues to introduce himself and Les Amis as Grantaire slinks in through the door of the Musain, with flushed cheeks and ever-present beanie sitting askew on his head.

 

Enjolras watches as Grantaire scans the crowd of students before grinning and heading to sit next to none other than Trevor James.

 

All Enjolras can do is blindly hope that Grantaire doesn’t scare Trevor away.

 

* * *

 

After Enjolras wraps up the meeting and the Musain starts to clear out, he heads straight to Trevor James. Grantaire had been quiet for the entirety of the meeting, and Enjolras prays that he hadn’t spent that time harassing Trevor with sarcastic, caustic comments about Les Amis. Or, if he had, Enjolras hopes that Trevor shot him down enough to keep him quiet.

 

Both Trevor and Grantaire smile at Enjolras as he approaches, sliding into an empty chair next to them.

 

“That was great, Enjolras,” Trevor says. “Really awesome things you’ve got planned for this semester. I’m impressed.” Enjolras starts to thank Trevor before Grantaire cuts him off.

 

“Truly wonderful, Apollo,” he drawls, nudging Enjolras’ knee with his own.

 

“As if you actually paid attention,” Enjolras scoffs, even though he knows that Grantaire follows all of the meetings, if only to interject and argue at every possible moment. “Sorry, Trevor- was this one bothering you?” Grantaire blinks, and Enjolras would almost say he looks _hurt_ before a startled laugh from Trevor catches his attention.

 

“Grantaire? Bothering me?” he asks, confused smile on his face. “Not at all- he’s actually the one who brought me here in the first place. He told me all about you guys.“

 

Enjolras files that fact away, to be processed at a later date when the offspring of Amnesty International is not sitting with him at a bar, ready and willing to have his brain picked apart by Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac.

 

“Oh, _hello._ Trevor, right?”

 

Speak of the devils. Courfeyrac reaches right across Enjolras to grasp at Trevor’s hand, shaking it firmly before clasping it in both hands.

 

“Courfeyrac. It’s lovely to meet you, truly,” he continues, and Enjolras watches Courfeyrac stroke his index finger across Trevor’s wrist exactly three times before he grinds the heel of his boot into Courfeyrac’s toe. There is an undignified squeal as Courfeyrac drops Trevor’s hand as though it’s on fire.

 

Trevor’s confused, but Grantaire is laughing again, so Enjolras doesn’t feel too bad. He introduces Trevor to Combeferre as well, letting the two men shake hands before leaning forward with his elbows on the table.

 

“So, Trevor, I was thinking that we could-”

 

“Actually,” Trevor says, cutting Enjolras off with a sheepish smile. “I completely forgot that I have to be somewhere right now. Is there any way we could reschedule? I’d still love to talk to you guys about future events and strategies, I just really can’t miss this appointment.”

 

“Of course,” Courfeyrac and Enjolras exclaim in unison. Grantaire and Combeferre each raise an eyebrow but say nothing.

 

“Did you sign the new member form that Jehan was passing around?” Enjolras continues, glaring at Courfeyrac. “I can get your contact information from there, and we can set up another meeting at a time that’s more convenient for you. Actually,” he says as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I can just give you my phone number if you’d like, and you can call me when you’re available.”

 

“Or me!” Courfeyrac yelps, whipping his phone out and sliding it across the table at Trevor. “You can call me. Any time. Seriously.”

 

Trevor and Grantaire both laugh. Enjolras and Courfeyrac both scowl. Combeferre remains neutral, brow still arched into his bangs.

 

“Sorry,” says Trevor, holding his hands up in a shrug. “I don’t have a phone for the States yet. I left my email on the new member form, though, and you’re welcome to use that.”

 

Enjolras nods, silently vowing to get to Jehan before Courfeyrac. If Les Amis loses its most valuable new member because Courfeyrac manages to scare him away by harping on his dick, Enjolras will _kill_ him.

 

“Will do,” Combeferre interrupts, reaching across to pat Trevor on the shoulder. “We’ll be in touch soon. Do you need a ride anywhere, Trevor? We have a car.”

 

“A _Prius_ ,” Enjolras adds, because it’s important that Amnes- _Trevor_ knows that they are concerned about the environment as well as society. They are a well-rounded group, damnit.

 

Grantaire snorts again, but before Enjolras can _kill him with thoughts alone_ , Trevor is standing up and pulling on his coat.

 

“No, I’m good. Grantaire actually already offered me a ride. Thanks for the offer, though, guys!”

 

Enjolras is too stunned that Trevor would accept a ride on Grantaire’s carbon-emitting, fossil-fuel guzzling, Earth-destroying motorcycle over a _hybrid_ to say anything other than a weak goodbye to the two of them as they head out to the street.

 

He, Courfeyrac and Combeferre watch the door as it swings shut behind them.

 

“Grantaire was awfully quiet today,” Combeferre muses, and Enjolras just makes an impatient noise. “But that Trevor guy-”

 

“ _I need him,_ ” Enjolras and Courfeyrac say at the same time, for very different reasons. Combeferre just sighs and lets his forehead hit the table.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for such an overwhelmingly lovely response to the first chapter :) :)! I own nothing, and all mistakes are mine. Enjoy!

**November**

 

“Something _terrible_ has happened.” 

“That’s nice,” Enjolras says, not looking up from his poly sci textbook as Courfeyrac throws himself into the chair on the other side of the table. “Go away.”

“No. I spent three hours last Thursday listening to you cry about puppies or whatever. It’s my turn to be inconsolable.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest, but he vaguely remembers a heated discussion with Grantaire concerning no-kill shelters that night. Instead, he sighs and closes his textbook. The Musain is a little too crowded for him to be completely productive, anyways.

“Fine. You get ten minutes of my time. No more, preferably less.”

“Oh, thank you, wise, _magnanimous_ Enjolras. You are so kind to the peasants you surround yourself with,” Courfeyrac begins, but backpedals as Enjolras scowls and picks up his textbook once more. “Relax, I’m kidding. My issue happens to concern both of our well-beings, so you should look a little more interested.”

“Is it the fundraiser? Did something happen with the fundraiser?” Les Amis have been planning the next week’s fundraiser for about a month now, desperate to collect some money and interest for future endeavors. Enjolras uses this reasoning to validate the hysterical tint to his voice at the thought of something going amiss with the event.

“What?” Courfeyrac frowns, genuinely disappointed with Enjolras. “God, _no_ , it’s not that freaking fundraiser. Stop thinking about that.”

“I wouldn’t have to be so concerned about it if _certain members_ of our group would be more-”

“ _Trevor James_ ,” Courfeyrac interrupts, laying both his hands palm-down on the table.

“Does Trevor want to be more involved with the fundraiser? Granted, he hasn’t really been around since the first meeting, but it would be great to have a well-known face with experience at the booth.”

“Seriously, mention the fundraiser _one more time_ in this conversation, and I will devote the rest of my life making you regret every decision you have ever made that has led to this moment.”

Enjolras sighs and looks forlornly at his poly sci book, sitting there, full of organized chapters with page numbers and labeled figures and _none_ of this riddle-trivia bullshit that appears every time Courfeyrac feels dramatic.

“Fine. Please just tell me before I am forced to regret decisions or whatever. 

“Trevor,” Courfeyrac starts again, pausing for effect until Enjolras can feel his left eye begin to twitch. “Trevor James _has a boyfriend_.”

Enjolras contemplates this for a moment, trying hard to place the significance.

“Okay? I’m assuming that you’re upset that he’s no longer on the market?” A thought dawns on him. “Is that why he’s been missing from meetings and events?”

“What? Yes, of course, Enjolras. Like the rest of the universe, he would probably rather spend his time having passionate, dirty sex with whatever hot piece of ass he’s acquired than sitting in a café-slash-bar with people like us.” 

Enjolras is irritated, to say the least- he’s _so tired_ of these distractions that his friends and colleagues have committed themselves to. There are so many injustices in the world, problems that need attention and time and effort to resolve, and yet his friends seem to think that the world revolves around them and their frequently-changing significant others. He’s even more disappointed that Trevor, someone who has seen first-hand what a difference groups like Les Amis can make, has chosen to suck face and watch movies and hold hands with his flavor-of-the-month instead of helping spread the word of social justice. He tells Courfeyrac as much, and earns an eye-roll and frown in return.

“People are allowed to multitask, Enjolras. Having a significant other doesn’t mean that you can’t do _anything_ else. If Trevor wanted to come to the meetings, he would have. Obviously he’s not that into the club or whatever. _Anyways_ , this is all besides the point. Would you like to hear the point, or would you like to continue on ranting about how you don’t believe in dating or whatever?” Enjolras stays silent but raises an eyebrow, which Courfeyrac correctly assumes means _hurry up and cut to the chase or suffer terrible, terrible punishments_. “Right. So the girl from my psych class told me she saw Trevor making out with a shorter dude with dark, curly hair- which, _hello_ ,” he says, tugging one of his own curls and letting it spring back into place. “Therefore, I have concluded that Trevor James has a _type_ , and I fit it very well. Almost ironically so. Ergo, I will be hosting a party at my apartment this Friday. You have three days to prepare your study schedule, so there is _no_ excuse as to why you cannot attend to make me look very popular and cool in front of Trevor James so that I can hook up with him.”

“That would work perfectly, I’m sure, if Trevor wasn’t already dating someone.” Honestly, Enjolras doesn’t really know why he’s bothering. He should have just agreed to Courfeyrac’s plan so the other man would leave him to study poly sci in peace.

“Oh, dear, sweet Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, standing up and hiking his messenger bag higher up on his shoulder. “So naïve. Let me give you a little piece of insight, my friend, from the great Wayne Gretzky: _Just because there’s a goalie, doesn’t mean you can’t score_.”

“I’m pretty sure Wayne Gretzky never said anything like that, Courf,” Enjolras huffs, but Courfeyrac is already walking towards the door of the Musain.

 

* * *

 

**New Facebook Message**

**Courfeyrac, Eponine and 10 others**

 

**Courfeyrac**

party

**Courfeyrac**

my apartment

**Courfeyrac**

friday

**Courfeyrac**

10 pm

**Courfeyrac**

byob and byo friends

**Courfeyrac**

if you have any haaaa

**Courfeyrac**

friends, not booze. im sure you can buy booze before then

**Courfeyrac**

actually you could probably buy friends too if you look in the right places

**Courfeyrac**

i digress. be there or else

 

* * *

 

By the time that Enjolras gets to Courfeyrac’s Pro-Cro apartment on Friday, there’s already twenty or thirty _very drunk_ twenty-somethings scattered across the rooftop. A flushed Combeferre buzzes him up to Courfeyrac’s apartment, waiting in the doorway for Enjolras to make his way in.

“Hey,” Combeferre says once Enjolras rounds the corner from the stairs. “You’re a little late.”

“I know,” Enjolras sighs, following Combeferre into the nearly empty apartment. There’s a couple of students he recognizes from their university sitting on the couch with a bong, and he raises a hand in greeting before heading to the kitchen. “Track work on the subway. I had to grab a cab from the East Village.” Combeferre winces in sympathy and grabs a cup to start making Enjolras his usual gin and tonic.

“Pretty much everybody else is upstairs,” Combeferre says, cutting up a lime in his precise, careful way. “Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta left a little bit ago. There’s a few too many people up there for Joly to be comfortable, and no railing on the rooftop for Bossuet, so.” Enjolras takes the offered drink and sips it, smiling gratefully at his friend.

“Not the best situation for our boys, no,” he grins, the gin sitting easy in his body already, leaving his muscles loose and skin flushed. He and Combeferre head up the stairs with their drinks, zipping up their coats once they hit the roof. There’s a firepit going in the middle of the rooftop and a crowd of people surrounding it. Three kegs are tucked in a corner, the weather cold enough to keep the beer chilled without ice. Enjolras says his hellos to his friends and stops to talk to a couple of new recruits that have been getting more involved with the club, increasing the volume of his voice once Eponine and Jehan start teasing him about networking.

Enjolras is in the middle of explaining the University’s restrictions on peaceful protests on campus-owned property when he hears the unmistakable sound of Courfeyrac’s flirting laughter- loud, throaty, and irritating. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of his friend hanging off of Trevor James’ arm, and _that little asshole_ almost comes out of his mouth before he can stop it. Enjolras ends his conversation with the new recruits quickly, and then stomps over to yank his so-called best friend off of the heir of Amnesty International.

 

* * *

 

“Want another?" 

Enjolras glances up at Combeferre, the other man silhouetted against the light from the firepit. He looks back down at his drink; he honestly doesn’t even remember the last time it was full, considering he’s been sitting on the rooftop for god-knows how long talking to Jehan and Feuilly.

“Yeah. I’ll come down with you- starting to lose feeling in my extremities. Is that a bad sign, Doctor?”

“I’m afraid it is, citizen,” Combeferre laughs, offering his free hand to pull Enjolras off the concrete block he’s been sitting on. “Fortunately, I know the only cure: more alcohol.”

“We should probably get treatment immediately, then.”

They head downstairs into Courfeyrac’s apartment, moving into the kitchen where it is blissfully warm against their ice-cold skin. Enjolras feels his legs start to itch under his jeans, and pours another drink quickly enough to take a little bit of the sting away.

“Did you get a chance to speak to Trevor? I think Courf was talking to him earlier.”

“Yes,” Enjolras scowls. “After I cleaned some of Courf’s drool off the poor guy, we talked a little about strategies. Trevor apologized for being MIA recently; apparently he’s got a lot on his plate.” Combeferre nods before taking a sip of his drink. He nearly spits it out, though, with a horrified look on his face.

“Did we just leave him alone up there with Courf again?”

“Christ, no,” Enjolras says, wrinkling his nose up against the very thought of subjecting anyone to Courfeyrac this drunk and horny. “Trevor said he was coming back down into the apartment for something and that he was probably going to head home.” Combeferre nods, going back to nursing his drink as his cheeks and the tip of his nose slowly turn back to a healthy pink.

He and Combeferre talk in the kitchen for a while, going through several more drinks as assorted party-goers flow in and out, getting their own. It’s not long before Grantaire makes his appearance, trading his empty beer can for a fresh one.

“Evening, Enjolras, ‘Ferre,” he says with a bright grin, cheeks ruddy from the cold in a familiar way. His trademark beanie sits tight over his hair with just a few curls fanning out along the nape of his neck and the crown of his head. “How are you boys doing tonight? Getting wasted, I hope.”

Combeferre replies with something witty, or at least Enjolras assumes as much, because both men start laughing. Enjolras is too focused on the bright red-purple mark on the side of Grantaire’s neck. He may be drunker than he’s realized.

“Hold on, there’s something on your neck,” Enjolras says, licking his thumb and leaning forward to rub it against the stain. Grantaire freezes under his touch- over the last couple months, they’ve been getting closer (i.e., are able to have friendly conversations when politics are not involved), but Enjolras often forgets how much personal space Grantaire needs to feel comfortable. His limbs are loose and easy from the alcohol, and he fumbles awkwardly trying to rub the mark away. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre says sharply, and Enjolras turns to look at his friend.

“What?  Don’t tell me you can’t see it- it’s huge,” he says with only a _little_ slur, turning back to his work. He frowns once he realizes that the stain hasn’t gone away; instead, it’s become bigger, growing irritated at the edges. “What kind of paint did you use, Jesus, Grantaire,” he mutters, licking his thumb again to keep working at it until Combeferre pulls him away.

“Sorry, sorry,” he hears Combeferre say as he’s spun away from Grantaire. “He’s been drinking gin and tonics and I don’t think he stopped for dinner.”

“It’s okay. I’m just- I left my phone in Courfeyrac’s bedroom, so I’m gonna go grab it.”

Grantaire’s voice sounds weird, so Enjolras turns back around _very slowly_ to see his friend even more flushed than before, redness creeping up the back of his neck and into the tangle of curls.

“Later, R,” Combeferre says, resting one hand on Grantaire’s shoulder. Enjolras gives a small wave as Grantaire turns and walks out of the kitchen, gaze very studiously focused on the ground.  Combeferre waits until Grantaire’s further down the hallway before reaching over and dumping out the rest of Enjolras’ drink. “Okay, wow, you’re cut off.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Enjolras begins to protest but still accepts the glass of water that is shoved into his hand. “That’s not fair. I was being a good friend. Everyone always goes _on_ and _on_ about how I need to be nicer to R, and then when I am, I get in trouble. Next time I’ll just let him walk around with paint on his neck.”

Combeferre stares at Enjolras for a beat of silence. Enjolras stares back as steady as he can, given his blood-alcohol content.

“That wasn’t paint-”

“It’s not another _tattoo_ , is it? God, that is the dumbest fucking tattoo I have ever seen, then, I swear. I seriously do not understand why artists get dumb –“

“It was a _hickey_ , Enjolras.”

Enjolras takes a couple of seconds to think his over in his head. Combeferre sighs and takes the opportunity to clean his glasses on the hem of his _Black Keys_ tee.

Something about that hits Enjolras in a weird way. It’s not that he’s never seen Grantaire with men before- God knows they’ve had enough nights out that have ended with their friend leading a local out of the bar- but Enjolras wasn’t really _friends_ with Grantaire when the other man was out hooking up. Recently, Grantaire hasn’t really gone out with all of them on the weekends. Enjolras can’t really remember the last time Grantaire had left with another man, and _shit_ he must be drunk if he’s standing here concerned about _Grantaire’s_ sexual life, of all people.

“I must be drunk,” he concludes, and then nearly shits his pants as a booming voice that could _only_ be Courfeyrac’s yells in his ear.

“That’s the spirit, E!”

Combeferre says _oh god_ very quietly under his breath, but Enjolras is close enough to hear it, even with the permanent hearing damage courtesy of Courf. He turns around to face his friend, who has decided that hanging off a doorjamb is an acceptable way to stand. 

“Tell me, Courfeyrac- what is it like, being blessed with the ability to deafen the masses? Does it feel like a curse, or are you grateful for your powers? Will you ever try using them for good?” Courfeyrac scowls at the tone of Enjolras’ voice, and opens his mouth to retort something vicious before Combeferre places a hand over each of their mouths.

“Both of you. Shutting up. Now. I’m dumping the two of you in the bedroom, locking the door, and letting you throttle each other with a desperate, fleeting hope that you’ll manage to commit simultaneous double homicide. Then I can get new friends who don’t constantly argue-” he looks pointedly at Enjolras “- or constantly yell,” he finishes with a glance at Courfeyrac. “March, boys.”

Courfeyrac and Enjolras learned a long time ago that when Combeferre speaks of murder, going along with everything he says is the absolute best policy. So, the two of them stumble out of the kitchen after his friend, trudging along behind him down the hallway with minimal elbow-throws and attempted tripping. Combeferre opens the door to Courfeyrac’s bedroom, says _oh shit_ , and quickly slams it closed again.

Of course, not before both Enjolras and Courfeyrac catch a very solid and very informative glimpse of Trevor James on his knees in front of his rumored boyfriend, who happens to be none other than Grantaire.

_Oh shit_ , indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I am so sorry this took so long. Please forgive me! I can't promise when the next chapter will be out- all depends on school and free time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all _so_ much for reading! I came across the prompt on tumblr and it kicked me in the butt and took over my mind for the last couple of days. Of course, I am laughably tumblr-inept/inferior, so I have absolutely no clue how to thank the original prompter, but it's a lovely idea and it tingled my write-y senses and yes.
> 
> I will not even pretend to know when I'll update next- I'm still in school, living in a developing country with frequent power outages on the best of days, much less during hurricane season. Apologies if it's a stupidly long time!
> 
> Title of this fic is from Billy Joel's _River of Dreams_. I listened to _Mr. Jones_ by the Counting Crows on repeat for _days_ writing this, in case you wanted a soundtrack :)


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